


Show Me Your Hand, I'll Give You My Heart

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left in a motel room in the middle of a snowstorm and unable to contact John, Sam and Dean take matters of a hunt into their own hands. The spell they find and use backfires -- or, at least, that's what they think at first. Rather, it just shows them some things Dean might rather have kept hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Your Hand, I'll Give You My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kelios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/gifts).



> Sam is 16 during sexual content in this fic. There are also off-screen child deaths. Inspired by the prompt found here: http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=2rcmz6a&s=8

Dad's on a hunt.  
  
Not at all unusual, Dean knows, and even him being gone for three weeks isn't enough to start fretting. But they're in Idaho where the snow hasn't let up once that entire time, and Dad's in Utah which Dean  _knows_ is worse right now. He sits on his bed and stares at the phone day after day.  
  
It doesn't ring.  
  
"Will you stop?" Sam asks him after about day five. He's always sprawled out on the grimy motel floor, some sort of text book open in front of him and a pen twisting in his hand. Even during Christmas break he's got to get ahead of everyone. He'd be going back to school soon if it weren't for the snow. Or the moving. Or their entire lifestyle.  
  
"And do what?" Dean snaps back. "If you could tear yourself away from the exciting world of geometry for a second, you'd see it's snowing outside."  
  
Sam gives him a withering look and turns back to his book. Dean keeps watching the phone.  
  


  
When Dean's not watching the phone, he's watching Sam. Which, yeah, when he puts it like that makes him sound creepy. Only he doesn't have a hard time finding the justifaction for it: Sam's his responsibility and watching him is part of the job. After the Shtriga all those years back, Dean's not fucking it up again.  
  
Sam always sleeps wrapped up tight in blankets and himself. Tiny despite the gangle of arms and legs he's got going on. A growth sput has snapped him up and looks like won't spit him out for many years to come. He rolls over and faces the wall, the blankets stretching out tighter.  
  
"Sam," Dean says, and doesn't know why.  
  
It doesn't matter; there's no response. Just the soft sleep mumbles that Dean can't decipher. Dean looks away, up at the ceiling, and wills himself to sleep. There's nothing else worth doing, but sleep still won't come.  
  


  
On this third week, something's not right.

The TV went out a few days prior and Dean checks the phone to see the same outcome (which is why he stops watching, waiting, and starts focusing on the external). The windows are constantly iced up and impossible to see from. Dean doesn't even bother trying the door.

It's the sounds outside that worry him most. They're hard to hear over the  _wooshing_ of wind and battering of tree branches, but Dean's a hunter. Right down to his blood and bones, and he  _knows_ when he hears something out of the ordinary. A rough growl that comes from too far away to ever be considered a dog's call.

"What  _is_ that?" Sam asks, because he's got the hunter instinct ingrained too, even if he's more reluctant to admit it.

Dean shrugs. "Probably nothing. Pet dog missing?"

Sam's eyes widen. "We should help it."

Dean goes for the fake nonchalance with an eye-roll tossed in. "Knock yourself out. But don't call out for me when you get stuck in the snow."

"Whatever," Sam mutters and slouches back down. But Dean sees his eyes flicker to the window as another growl sounds.

"What're you reading?" Dean asks, trying to change the subject.

  
It's still there at night. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, vaguely facing the window. Sam's asleep closeby, or at least Dean  _thinks_  
he's asleep until he hears...

"Dean?"

Dean turns back to see the silhouette of Sam throwing back his covers and moving toward Dean. The bed dips and Sams right there, wide eyes blinking into the dark.

"Stop lying to me," Sam says. His voice is sleep-hoarse. "What is it?"

"I don't know."

"Dean..."

"Seriously, Sam," Dean says. "I got no idea."

"We should call Dad," is Sam's immediate response and Dean's heart breaks, just a little bit.

"Phones are out."

"No," Sam says with a shake of his head. "They're not -- there's a dial tone."

"If he's hunting, do you really think he's gonna pick up?"

Even in that shadowed darkness Dean can see the blow that delivers to Sam. He physically shrinks back and Dean wants to provide some form of comfort, but he's all twisted inside. Dad should  _be here_. Sam shouldn't have to call further than the next room.

"Is he coming back?" Sam's quiet now.

"Of course he is. Hey." He slings an arm around Sam's shoulder and draws him closer. Sam goes. "He'll be back. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs, but he doesn't sound at all convinced.

That growl again. Louder now, the snow having let up. Sam winces against Dean and Dean's hand squeezes Sam's shoulder. It's not a dog. It's not a wolf. It's anything that's supposed to be out there -- Dean knows this. Knows this like he knows how to shoot a gun or replace the oil in an engine or hustle pool to earn enough money to feed the family for a month. Some things he just  _knows_.

"Do you think I should go out there?" Dean asks and regrets it. The words were meant for his head and not the room.

"No," Sam says, instant. He tugs at Dean's shoulder until their face-to-face. "You just said you don't know what it is."

Dean looks away again and bites against his tongue to keep from saying something stupid. He can taste the faint, metallic tang of blood and swallows down hard until it's washed away.

"Hey Dean?"

Dean keeps his eyes on the frosted window. "Yeah?"

Sam's hand comes up to rest against Dean neck and Dean finds himself leaning into it, though not even enough for him to notice until Sam's thumb slides over his lip, and Dean shies away from the touch. He turns to face Sam and Sam moves closer.

"Don't," Sam says. His voice is soft and warm where it settles by Dean's ear. "Please don't."

_Don't what?_ Dean wants to ask even though something, somewhere, inside him says he already knows the answer. Sam blinks slow and soft then he's leaning forward and Dean feels the brush of Sam's lips against his. Everything inside Dean tells him to pull back. To get the fuck away from his  _brother_. But then Sam gasps against his mouth and Dean's dragging his hands through his brother's hair, drawing him closer.

Sam's clumsy but not at all cautious as his tongue presses against Dean's lips and their teeth clack together. Dean's managed to shut down the rest of his brain, to focus on pure pleasure receptors and ignore who he's kissing and why he shouldn't. At least until that deep growl from outside sounds again and Dean is jolting backward, almost falling off the bed. Sam's hands follow him until Dean stands and they're forced to fall away.

"I have to see what that is," Dean says, his voice tight. He drags the back of his hand over his mouth and watches Sam's face drop. The reaction should be because of the sounds outside,  _not_ for the real reason. Dean goes straight for the door.

It takes a few pulls to get the door open, and in different circumstances, he'd call Sam over to help. But the door finally swings forward and Dean manages to fit outside, immedietly sinking into the knee-deep snow. This isn't going to work. He'd be a fucking idiot to even try. Still, he stays there and looks out into the distance. The snow has stopped, at least, but the air remains hazy. Dean has to squint to make out more than ten feet ahead.

That's when he sees it.

At first Dean thinks it's just a man. Draped in black and hunched over, braced against the rushing wind. But then, as Dean just  _stands_  there, he watches it  _morph_. He might've thought it was a skinwalker -- he remembers that page from Dad's journal, complete with a description of how its skin falls from its body -- but that doesn't happen here. There's nothing that falls from...whatever this  _thing_ is. Instead it just changes, collapsing in and out of itself and then, as suddenly as it began changing, it's turned into a small child.

_A small child._  Dean has to repeat that over and over in his head a few times just for it to sink in. A  _girl_ at that -- with long blonde ringlets that bounce as she walks.

Dean rushes right back inside.

"What?" Sam asks, coming up beside him.

Dean says nothing. He flings himself toward the phone and picks it up. Sam was right -- a dial tone. He thinks better than to call Dad, and pushes in Bobby's number instead. There are three trilled rings before a gruff voice of, "Hello?" comes over the line.

"Bobby," Dean says and the only way he can describe his voice is  _relief_. At least they have someone who's always just a phone call away.

"Dean?" Bobby's voice sounds clearer. "What's wrong, son?"

He tells Bobby. About the shape, the changes, the freaking kid walking out there in the snow. Bobby is quiet throughout, which Dean only realises when he takes in a breath after blurting out all that information.

"It could be a number of things," Bobby says after a long pause. Dean has the phone held so hard his fingers ache. "Skinwalker?"

"No," Dean says. "It didn't shed. It just... _changed_ , Bobby. Like something outta a fantasy movie."

Dean hears the scratch of Bobby's hand running over his beard. A clear of his throat. "A shifter? A Leshy? An Ijiraq? Has anyone been taken?"

"I haven't checked the papers since we got here and the TV's out," Dean says, and internally berates himself for it; Dad always made them get the local newspaper, check the obituaries, figure out if there were more cases they had to solve. And Dean was 20 now -- not a kid anymore. Excuses didn't fly.

"Dean." Sam comes up behind him and in his hand is a newspaper.

"Is that...?" Dean says it into the phone while he stares at Sam and snatches that paper from him. "Why didn't you tell me you had that?"

"I only got it yesterday."

_How?_

"What's going on, Dean?" Bobby asks from over the phone.

"Sam  _does_ have a paper," Dean says with a very pointed look at his brother. He cradles the phone against his shoulder and flicks through to the obituaries. There it is, inked right into the page, the death of three children. It's a good a link as any. "Three children dead in the past week," Dean tells Bobby.

"My money's on the Ijiraq. It can change forms and takes children."

"How do I kill it?" Dean asks. He's still glued to those obituaries, to those names: Brittany, Michaela, and Ryan -- none of them had even turned ten.

"I'm going to have to dig into my research for that answer," Bobby says. "Until then...I can give you boys a spell. It will buy you and whatever kids are around some time."

It takes Dean a lot of effort not to snort in idignation. "You really think parents will let me and Sam take their kids away?"

Sam makes a 'what's he talking about' face and Dean shakes his head.

"Do you have any other options?"

Dean stays silent.

"Okay. Here's what to do."

  
They're sitting cross-legged on the floor on either side of a kitchen pot. It was the only thing in the vacinity that  _might_ work. Beside it is a cup of snow -- and Dean saw the  _thing_ again when he went out to get it, still with the blonde curls and little-girl build -- and a packet of matches. How it's enough Dean has no idea, but he trusts Bobby to know about this sort of thing.

"I can't read your writing," Sam says, turning the page on different angles and squinting.

"Shut up," Dean says. "I know you can."

"Well not  _this_ writing." Sam drops the paper.

He looks at Dean and Dean looks away, swallowing hard. Sam hasn't brought up... _before_...yet, but Dean knows it's just a matter of him. It's not like Sam to just let things go.

The ringing of the phone saves Dean from having to face anything  _then_ at least. He all but leaps up to grab the reciever and shove it against his ear. "Bobby?"

It'll be that or house cleaning, and Dad had told them to stay away.

"I might have something." Bobby's voice. No introduction or pleasantries necessary. "But it's a long shot, and I'm not even sure if I should let you have it."

"Three kids, Bobby," Dean says, and he knows it will be enough.

Bobby sighs.  _Got him_. "You seem to just be able to use stone. Stab it...through the heart, I'd say, but even that's up in the air."

"Any particular type of stone?"

"Not that I can tell." There's a pause. "Dean, I'm about 20/80 on this actually working. Why don't I come down to help you out?"

"It'll take you at least a day to get here," Dean says. He looks out the window. "And that's if you make it through the snow."

"I'll fly."

"Bobby..."

"Just wait it out. No use you getting taken as well. I'll see you soon."

Click. Gone.

"What'd he say?" Sam asks. He's moving to stand up but Dean shakes his head and sits back down again himself.

"He said we go ahead with the spell."

"And then...?"

Dean leans back on his hands, head thrown toward the ceiling so he doesn't have to look Sam in the eyes. He hates lying to him and has managed to avoid it ever since the whole Dad-is-a-hunter-and-a-monster-killed-Mom Christmas fiasco close to a decade back. Not that this is a big lie -- not even close. It's not going to hurt Sam, and Dean's going to save people. A total win-win.

"And then I go and kill it," Dean says.

"How?"

Dean allows his head to fall back down his eyes to square with Sam's. "With a spear carved of stone."

"That sounds like something out of a book," Sam says. His voice is condescending, but Dean can see the fear in Sam's eyes.

"And what about this whole thing  _doesn't_?"

They lapse into silence. Dean picks up the packet of matches and shakes them softly in his hand. He's watching Sam, sees Sam lick over his lips, and Dean clears his throat.

"Come on," Dean says. "You have to do it."

Sam watches him for a moment longer and Dean  _knows_ he wants to say something. But Dean won't allow it.

"Read," Dean repeats.

Sam's face falls. Dean tries to ignore it. Sam picks up the paper. "Bobby thinks you get twenty minutes. Make it count."

Dean grins. It's easy when they're back here. "I always do."

"Don't be stupid."

"I won't." The grin is still there, but he attempts seriousness despite it. "I've hunted enough before to know what I'm doing."

Sam's mouth draws into a stern line. His eyes drop to the paper and begins to read.

It's filled with Latin words Dean hardly understands but seem to trip off Sam's tongue with ease. He does catch the words meaning  _bound_ and _protect_  which, given how Bobby described the spell, make sense. Sam would take and protect him for the time it took to grab some stone and shove it into the body of the monster. Plus it wouldn't take very long at all; Dean knew there was a crumbling stone wall on the perimeter of the motel and he had some idea of what he was looking for in the monster. It would be one of the easier hunts they'd done.

Sam drops the cup of snow into the pot and says some more words, tripping up and squinting at one point before glaring at Dean.

"What?" Dean mouths.

Sam shakes his head and says something more in Latin. He picks up the matches, lights one, and tosses it in with the snow.

Nothing happens.

"Do you have to say anything else?" Dean asks.

"Shh," Sam hisses. "If there's anything wrong it's because I couldn't read  _your_ \--"

Then Sam is cut off by a spurt of light erupting from the pot. He jumps back and Dean stays still, watching, when that light zaps out and seems to  _consume_ Sam's body.  _Holy shit._ Dean scrambles to his feetand moves toward Sam when it just...stops.

"What was that?" Dean says, voice hoarse and almost silent.

"I..." Sam swalllows. Dean sees his throat work over. "I don't know."

"Are you okay?" Dean's cleared the distance between them and his hands grip onto Sam's shoulders. He  _feels_ normal and, when his eyes focus on Dean, they also look the same as always.

"Yeah," Sam says. He nods like he's trying to convince himself more than Dean. "Yeah."

Dean slowly allows his grip to drop, but his eyes stay firmly on Sam's. He doesn't know exactly why; maybe he's waiting for the moment something changes. Because something  _did_ happen -- the spell  _did_ seem to work.

"You have to go," Sam says. He waves the paper in Dean's face. "The spell runs out."

"Right," Dean says. "Are you sure--"

"Go," Sam says.

He gives his brother one last look before he's up and out the door. At least the quicker he gets this done, the quicker he can be back and make sure Sam's okay.

  
When the door closes behind Dean, Sam can let out the gasp he's been surpressing. His whole body feels like it's on ice, stabbing through his skin from the inside and encassing the rest of him. He has to blink to properly take in the paper with the spell on it, knowing there's more he's supposed to do while Dean's gone.

 _Stand. In one hour's time, end the spell with 'perago'._

Sam looks back at the clock that tells him only two minutes have past. He stares until another two pass before getting to his feet. Then probably  _another_ two before he can stand up straight and breathe out deep. More stabbing sensations shoot through Sam as he keeps himself upright. He counts in his mind, eyes closed, and waits for it to leave.

Outside, the wind picks up again. He can hear it slamming on the door. The snow is likely building up and again, and--

And  _oh shit_ \-- what if Dean can't get back inside?

Sam's eyes fly open and the pain is back to spreading. Only now, it's different. Warming up. There's a pleasant peak before it's going over.  _Too hot, too hot_. Sam's eyes slam closed again. He didn't want to look and see the flames that he was sure were engulfing his body.  _Come on, Dean_. Or, even,  _come on clock_. Sam peaks out through slitted eyes to see half an hour has passed. Quicker than he thought at least.

The flames are still there. Still growing, licking,  _burning_. He can't hold back a whimper of pain when he bites down too slow. Yet he still manages to taste blood as his teeth slice in.

His entire mind feels hazy and somewhere else, centred only on the pain coursing through him. He tries to swallow but can't find his tongue. Lights dance in front of his eyes and Sam knows he's falling but can't make himself stop.

 _Dean._

  
It takes all of Dean's strength to force the door open. His arms already ache from stabbing the jagged piece of stone through the Ijiraq, and now his shoulder feels bruised from the door.  
  
"Sam," he calls as he steps inside. "The thing's been wasted--"  
  
Dean stops dead and his blood runs cold. He sees Sam lying on the motel room carpet, but his brain doesn't tick over to that thought until Dean's already on his knees, hands pressing to the sides of Sam's face and willing him to open his eyes.  
  
"Sam!" Dean orders. "Look at me."  
  
There's no response from Sam. He's dead-weight and his head rolls back on his neck. Dean holds the sides of his brother's face firmer and can feel the panic rising in his throat.  _Come on, come on._  
  
"Sammy!" Dean says. "Open your freaking eyes."  
  
Sam lets out a low moan and his eyelids flutter up. Dean just about collapses himself from the relief. A wary grins breaks over his face and he runs his thumbs under Sam's eyes.  
  
"Yeah, Sammy, just keep looking at me."  
  
Sam's eyes open a little further and he seems to focus hazily on Dean's face. Even a little smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. "Hey," he says. His voice is croaky. "What happened?"  
  
"I don't know," Dean answers honestly. "But you're  _freezing_. Come on, needa get you into the bed."  
  
Sam is unsteady on his feet, and it's mostly Dean carrying him, but soon he's pressed into the matress and wrapped up in the covers. Still shivering.  
  
"Did you follow the spell properly?" Dean asks. He stands at the side of the double bed and leans over Sam. Sam's face looks flushed and his lips are taking on the oddest shade of blue.  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. His eyes are small slits that look like they will close at any second. "I think so. Can't really remember."  
  
"What do you mean...?" Dean trails off as Sam's eyes shut again and a particularly violent shiver rocks through him. He really needs a doctor -- or even their dad.  _He'd_ know what to do. Instead Sam's stuck with his useless brother. Dean does the only thing that comes to mind and says, "Move over."  
  
Sam shuffles over without question and without opening his eyes. Dean kicks off his shoes and pulls the blankets back again, getting under the bed and pressing right against his brother. The shiver cuts off in seconds and Sam snuggles closer to Dean. Just like when they were kids, Sam's head is tucked up under Dean's chin and his legs wrap their way between Dean's knees.

"Better?" Dean asks in a voice that isn't quite his. Only now is he acutely aware of just how Sam's hearbeat feels against his chest and the way his dry lips are settled at the hollow of Dean's throat.  
  
Sam murmurs something noncommittal and Dean doesn't ask for the follow-up. He's too busy trying to focus on  _not_ focusing; on staring at the mottled white wall and evening out his breathing. It has only picked up because of the hunt. Nothing else. His heartbeat slows and he feels his eyes grow heavy.  
  
He must drift off, if only for a few minutes, and when his eyes pull open again it's to Sam staring down at him.  
  
Dean starts with, "What are you--"  
  
Sam cuts him off a shake of his head, shaggy bangs brushing Dean's forehead. "Please," he says. His breath feels colder than it should against Dean's face. "Just let me."  
  
Dean wants to say no, but his tongue is still stuck from sleep and his limbs feel too heavy to push Sam away. Instead he stays still as Sam brushes his lips across Dean's own. Sam sighs and presses harder into the kiss, lips moving against Dean's with no rhythm beyond  _more, more, more_. Dean only opens up to let Sam in out of reflex when a tongue runs across the seam of his lips. He tries to ignore that it's Sam and blames his still-sleepy state on what's happening.  
  
He can't even fool himself.  
  
Sam's hands slide down Dean's sides and slip up under his shirt before Dean can find a way to protest. Sam's fingertips are cold but they somehow make Dean feel warm, as though they're exchanging one for the other. It's not nearly as strange an explanation as Dean thinks it could be.  
  
"Dean."  
  
The way his name falls from Sam's lips makes Dean arch up against him without any concious desire. He should be putting a stop to this but Sam's hand presses against his hardening cock and Dean gasps out instead. He hardly even notices Sam pushing at his jeans until Sam is touching his bare cock and his hands now feel hot. It's finally enough for Dean to pull back.  
  
"What are you doing, Sam?" he asks. He slams into the metal headboard and it sents a jag of pain through him. Dean ignores that and stares hard at his brother.  
  
"Don't tell me you don't want it," Sam says, voice thick. He reaches out but Dean pushes his hand away. "Dean, come on."  
  
"No." Dean shakes his head and reaches under the covers to yank up his jeans. His fingers fumble with the zip but he manages to get himself mostly dressed again. He still knows his face is burning as red as Sam's, and that his pupils are probably blown wide. Nothing he can do about that apart from run a hand over his face and hope everything changes when it drops away again.  
  
It doesn't. His face is stil hot and Sam is still watching him. Dropping his eyes does nothing -- Dean can now see the solid outline of his brother's cock straining against his jeans. Dean tries to look at the bedspread between them instead.  
  
"No, just--" Dean looks back up at his brother and his heart breaks, just that little bit, at the way Sam is begging him with his eyes. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."  
  
Sam doesn't fight to make him stay.

  
The spell must still be working. Dean can walk outside without feeling the bite of cold lashing through his skin. He isn't sure where he's going, but once he's out of the motel's perimeter he remembers there's a bar nearby. It's probably closed or at least empty - but Dean decides to try his luck. It's an infinitley better idea than going back inside and facing what they've just tried to do.  
  
He refuses to think about that while he walks. He kicks up the snow and catches the flakes in his hand as the storm slows to a moderate fall. At least it takes some effort to trudge through it, and he has to focus.  
  
The bar comes about quicker than he thought and it  _is_ open -- a red neon sign flashing through the darkness. Dean walks inside and is greeted by the few stragglers seated at the bar and two more men halfway through a game of pool. They don't do so much as throw him a curtosey nod as he walks up to the bar, flashes the ID of 22-year-old Jim Densmore, and has two bottles of beer pushed toward him. Dean downs half of the first in two swallows.  
  
"Got no idea how you braved that storm," comes a voice from behind him.  
  
Dean turns around to see a pretty girl with wide blue eyes. She takes the stool next to him and shoots him a smile.  
  
"Not so bad," Dean said. "It's slowed."  
  
She turns to look out one of windows. Dean follows and sees that it's snow-coated white. "Are you from New England or something?"

"Or something." He finishes off the first beer and cracks open the second.  
  
"Not a big talker?" She sticks out a hand. "I'm Cathy."  
  
Dean takes it, shakes it briefly, and looks back at his bottle. It's a downright cliche him sitting here and mourning his losses -- though he's not sure  _what_ those are and is refusing to think deeply about the possibilities -- at a bar, but he really can't find it in himself to care. When he does, it's to thoughts of Sam sitting back in the motel room, waiting, maybe thinking about--  
  
_No._  
  
"So, Cathy." Dean manifactures a smile. "If that storm's so bad, what are you doing here?"  
  
"My uncle owns the place." She sticks her thumb toward the bartender. "And I got in before the apocalypse decided to rain down upon us."  
  
Dean huffs out a laugh. "You never seen a snowstorm before, sweetheart?"  
  
"Not one this bad." She edges a little closer, her arm faintly touching Dean's. "Are you about to tell me your a park ranger or just returned back from a Mt. Everest expedition?"  
  
"Sorry," Dean says. "I'm not that interesting."  
  
"No matter." She smiles wider. "You seem plenty interesting to me."  
  
He zones out of the conversation that follows. More small talk about the weather and what it's like to have a family member who owns a bar but refuses to give out free drinks. She still buys him a beer and he follows up with a second round. It scores him a brighter smile, a flirty wink, and a swimming head that soon forgets about Sam.  
  
_(or so Dean will tell himself.)_  
  
Cathy ends up guiding him into one of the booths, a hand playing by his waistband and lips pressed to his neck. He returns with an intense fervour that gives him  _nothing_ in return. No turn on, no attraction, no desire to take her back to the motel and fuck her into the bed. He pulls away with a start, attempts a pathetic apology, and goes back out into the snow.  
  


  
It's completely dark out by the time Dean returns. He can taste the faint flavour of cherry lip gloss still on his mouth and he wipes at it, hard, with his sleeve. Dean just touches the door handle when it's pulled open and Bobby is standing there with an indescribable look on his face.

"You killed it?" Bobby asks right away.

Dean nods mutely and steps inside. He sees Sam sitting at the tiny table, his face a striken white and Dean feels sick. Not just about what they've done, but leaving Sam with whatever effect the spell had --  _has_ \-- obviously left on him. Dean moves toward his brother but Bobby holds out a hand to stop him.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"Tell me what happened with the spell," Bobby says.

"I already--" Sam begins, but he is cut off by Bobby.

"I need you to tell me the spell." His eyes look harder than Dean's ever seen them before and, if looks could kill, well...

"Here." Dean spots the paper on the ground and picks it up, thrusting it toward Bobby. "We followed it to a T."

Bobby takes the paper and doesn't look at Dean. His lips move as he reads the words, and Dean wishes he knew what Bobby was thinking. He glances over at Sam who is now staring at the floor with his arms crossed.

"Well?" Dean asks. He has no patience left for this.

Bobby lowers the paper from his face which still hasn't altered in emotion. Dean tenses -- he's still certain that what comes next won't be good news.

"I've heard of things going wrong." Bobby even sounds emotionless now. "It's a risky spell, boys. I should have made that clearer. But usually...usually that just means it doesn't work out."

"It worked," Dean says. He throws out his arms. "Look at me -- I'm fine and that thing is dead. What are you telling us?"

"I'm saying that it's showed something else." Bobby takes a deep breath in and his whole chest heaves with the exertion of it.

"What?" Dean asks. Part of him regrets it. Most of him doesn't.

"There is some lore--"

"Just spit it out, Bobby!" Dean doesn't know why he's so angry.

"Soulmates," Bobby says. "There's lore that says these type of binding spells can show soulmates."

It doesn't actually register in Dean. That word. And when it begins to take on a tangible grip, it's in the form of fairytales and short-lived high school relationships where girls tried to nonchantly whisper it in his ear after they'd hooked up for the first time.

But not this.

"What are you--? What does that--?" Dean doesn't even know what he's saying. Panicked, he looks at Sam who won't meet him squarley back. Dean's gaze flies back to Bobby.

"It means what you think it means." Bobby doesn't sound like Bobby. He doesn't say anything else. Dean is left grasping for something in the dark that he can't ever find.

"I'm working through a case back in Sioux Falls." Bobby eyes both Sam and Dean but doesn't properly settle on either.  _He's ashamed_ , is all Dean can think. Not that Dean can blame him. "I'll call you boys later, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says. Sam says nothing. Dean has to swallow down the lump in his throat in order to walk to the door, open it for Bobby, and watch him walk out into the snow. He looks back over his shoulder and gives Dean a nod. Dean has no idea what he's supposed to read in it.

Dean walks back inside and closes his eyes, trying to wrap his head around everything. All he can see is young Sam -- Sam starting school, Sam learning to shoot, Sam asking him about  _Mom_ and  _Dad_ and  _hunting_. Everything brothers should be doing but not this. Never this.

"I love you."

The words snap Dean back to the present. His head reels toward his brother and his stomach drops to the floor. "Don't," he tries to get out. "Sammy, you can't--"

"But." Sam stands and takes a step forward. Dean lets him. "If God made us soul mates, why is our love a sin?"

Dean almost feels drunk, though he doubts those two beers have really come back to bite him in the ass. He feels almost blindly for the bed and sits heavily.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't answer. He buries his face in his hands and attempts to remember the whole breathing thing. Time must pass, but Dean isn't sure how long. The next thing he knows is Sam's hands on his thighs and, as Dean moves his fingers from his eyes, he takes in his baby brother on his knees and staring up at him with big bright eyes.

"Please," Sam mouths more than says.

Dean remains silent.

Sam's tongue swipes over the denim covering Dean's cock and Dean jolts against it, cock filling. Sam does it again, again, and it must feel rough but he doesn't slow at all with those messy, wet strokes.

"You've never done this before, have you?" Dean asks, and doesn't think about how it sounds because that isn't why. He just needs to know that's for him. Only him. Like it was always supposed to be.

Sam pulls back and shakes his head. "Does...does it show?" All nervous, sweet, embarassed and Dean falls in love right then and there.

"No, baby," he says. The word trips off his tongue as though it was created just for this moment. "Not at all."

Sam sighs. A deep sound of relief low in his throat. His fingers are shaking as he gets at the zip of Dean's jeans and tugs down. Dean helps him out, gets his cock free, and then freezes because he's downright terrified.

"Tell me," Sam says, voice wavering but having an underlying message of  _yes. This is what I want_.

Dean's tongue feels heavy and he can't think of what to say again. Instead he just reaches down and wraps a hand around his own cock, jacking a slow strip from root to tip. Sam watches, intent, before leaning down and licking around the head.

Dean's given up trying to breathe.

Sam's mouth soon replaces Dean's hand, taking him in past the head. It's sloppy and uncordinated and reminds him of the one time Amanda Heckerling went down on him. Only...only there is something more here, and Dean knows that immedietly. Sam takes him down a little more and moans, the sensation travelling up and down Dean's cock until it settles as a warm and solid heat in his belly.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs.

Sam pulls off and a cold draft floats over the spit-slick skin. Dean shivers -- at least the spell seems to have worn off. But nothing else has changed: Dean looks at Sam and wants him more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life. Sam is there in front of him, kissing him and pushing him into the bed. His tongue hot as it twines with Dean's and those little moans he keeps letting out makes Dean as though he's about to die.

He rucks his hands up under Sam's shirt, getting his fingertips against the soft skin there, and keeps kissing Sam as the remainder of their clothes are discarded to the floor. Sam's shot up into all skin and muscle over the past few months. He leans over Dean now, bangs brushing Dean's forehead, too tall and yet not big enough -- will always need Dean to protect him. When Sam rolls over and Dean looks down at  _him_ , it's even more pronounced.

"Are you sure you want this, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice caught somewhere along the way so it comes out with an edge he hopes isn't too rough.

"Yes," Sam says, sounding much more sure. His even more confirming response is to drop his knees and spread his legs wider for Dean's view, rock hard cock bobbing against his stomach. "I've always wanted you."

The  _you_ stands out more than anything else.

Dean leans down and kisses Sam -- kisses  _his brother_ ,  _his soulmate_ \-- and somehow everything else floats away into the distance. He reaches between them and takes Sam's cock in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the head and smiling wide when Sam breaks away from the kiss to moan out loud.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says.

In his bag there's lube, always hidden away with the packets of condoms he periodically swipes from the drugstores they pass through. Sam whines when Dean moves away to collect both, and shakes his head when Dean holds them up.

"Not the condoms," Sam says, quiet. "I want to feel you."

Dean's cock aches.

He gets back on the bed and pops the cap, struggling to see what he's doing as Sam begins to kiss him again. All tongue and teeth as Dean finds himself falling into it.  _Sam. This is Sam._  The thought is becoming less and less frightening as the seconds pass.

"Please," Sam breathes out warm across Dean's face.

_Never have to ask, Sammy. I'll always give you what you want_. Dean thinks this but doesn't say any of it out loud. He brushes two fingers over Sam's hole. Sam bucks up against him instantaneously.

"More," Sam tells Dean in that way he always knows how. He slings a hand over Dean's neck and draws him in closer.

"Always," Dean murmurs and pulls back just enough to look into Sam's eyes. They're hodded and what little is visible remains an almost jet black of blown-wide pupils.

He pushes one finger slowly inside as Sam rocks back against him. His eyes slide the remainder of the way closed and his mouth falls slack. Dean works in another and everything is focused on Sam; the way he moves, the way he lets out a breathy moan, the way he asks for more without a single word. Everything else, from the rushing cars to the sudden pickup of snow, fades into the background like a road left far behind.

"Need you," Sam says.

Dean pulls his fingers away and Sam lets out another moan that quickly regresses into a sigh.

"Look at me," Dean says, and Sam does. Eyes open and so full of love that Dean thinks he might collapse into it. He slicks up his cock with more of the lube and slowly, slowly presses into his brother.

He stops. Freezes, really. His fingertips stay clenched into Sam's hips and he stares into Sam's eyes.

There's nothing there he hasn't seen before. It's the same multi-coloured hazel and hues that have been there for as long as Dean can remember. But now -- somehow -- he's looking further. Deeper. Dean pulls out a little and rocks back in. Sam's eyes snap closed and he lets out a low sound.

A few thoughts are trying to make their way to to Dean's mind. Mostly those trying to remind him that Sam is indeed his brother. But the way Sam responds is stronger and manages to help block them out. Dean presses in deeper and Sam takes him, matching each stroke with a thrust.

Dean knows he can't last long but he also doesn't want to ever let go of this sensation. Sam hot and tight around him. Around  _all_ of him. Clenching his cock, his chest, his entire  _heart_ and not letting go. Dean wraps a hand in Sam's hair and fucks into him harder, harder, crushing their lips together with no real technique but relishing in the feel all the same.

"Dean," Sam gasps. His hand drops to his cock that's so hard and slapping against Sam's belly with every movement. Dean's own hand joins about Sam's and jerks him hard, fast, bringing out sounds Dean craves from his little brother.

Sam comes first. His back arches up high and he lets out a cry that seems to go on forever. Long enough, at least, for Dean to shallow his thrusts and look into his brother's eyes. Into all that starts and ends with a single gaze. When Dean comes, it's like nothing he's ever experienced before. Going on and on and on until he doesn't think he'll ever get out.

He doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.

"I love you," Sam whispers before they can pull apart. This time it's less of a statement and more of a plead. Clinging words.

Dean kisses him softly. Trying to throw all emotion possible into that single action. "I love you, too. Always have and always will."


End file.
